


Our House with the Magnolias

by lechatnoir



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a past, filled with hatred and regret, old silken robes and a dance that neither one of them knows how to dance correctly to the tune of their heart strings .</p><p>In which Toothiana realizes Seraphina is a bit more human than she thought she would be and Seraphina discovers that it's fine to let your guard down sometimes and let someone in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our House with the Magnolias

**Author's Note:**

> For thememoryguardian over on tumblr uwu 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @ chrysanthemumskies

I.

 

When she was a young bird, she had dreams of joining the Sisters of Flight.

 

She remembers the stories her mother would tell her, of the brave warriors who struck down evil in both the sky and the earth’s hollow ground, and she thought that one day, she’ll be brave too, 

and have two swords to slay demons with, 

and keep the enemies at bay.

 

She would protect the weak, and rule with a kind and stern heart.

 

Those were the thoughts she had , 

when she was a little bird.

 

They were smashed soon after, 

once her feathers started to grow.

 

ii.

 

She remembers the hatred that seeped out of her, the jagged thorns that seeped into her throat as she lashed out and screamed out for anyone to hear.

 

(There was no one, no one, but the wind and the trees and the river bed that made the river storm and spill over, watering the dried up earth , drought ridden and lifeless and she thought to herself, that she would very much like to cease to exist, the little tooth queen with no one but the mist to keep her company.)

 

She laughs, and it’s a broken little laugh as she makes herself get up, makes herself spread her wings and fly back to her little castle in the clouds, where the mountains face her like old friends and she thinks that the wind helps her a little, pushes her forward.

 

(What she doesn’t know is that Mother Nature , dearest dear, is keeping watch over her.)

 

(And she thinks, that this little bird needs time to rebuild.

 

But the wind is as old as she is, and the mountains are older, and she – 

she can learn from them, 

perhaps.)

 

She watches from the shadows of the leaves, watches from beneath the cracks in the faces of the mountains, dances around her with the wind in tow, and makes the sun shine down on the little bird.

 

(There is no place, for someone like me, but perhaps, the little bird can learn how to fly again – 

is what Seraphina thinks to herself, as she watches from afar.

 

Everywhere and nowhere all at once, like a theoretical cat.

 

It puts a smile on her face, as she watches Tooth grow, and grow, 

and learns how to heal, bit by bit.)

 

iii.

 

The wind howls, and spring turns to summer with the summer rains that wash away the last remains of winter, and Tooth thinks, that maybe she was wrong, all those years ago.

 

When she was a little bird with enough hatred to make her boil and turn cold, cold rain beating down on her.

 

(Don’t forget, the blood on your hands, little dove.)

 

She thinks that she was wrong, perhaps, to blame everyone and everything for what had happened.

 

For her mother and father, for the Sisters of Flight, for the lost memories, lost children.

 

(For the fact that she was tossed aside, ripped and torn apart by her own little foolish optimism, 

for having the idea that her hope alone, 

with her dreams,

would get her places.

 

For believing in the fact that people wouldn’t be scared, of a little monster such as herself.

 

She isn’t human, not really.

 

Nor is she a bird.

 

She’s simply Toothiana, the Guardian of Memories.

 

Perhaps that’s why she’s had quite some time to think, to let the mountains greet her like an old friend, and let the wind chase her in a mad race against no one and nothing, but still it felt like she was playing, laughing with an old friend who just so happened to keep watch over her, 

from a distance.)

 

iv.

 

As far as she remembers, there is – was – a gold locket, with a picture of a man with golden eyes and raven black hair, and a girl with flowers in her hair.

 

She remembers, how that locket had slowly slipped away , slipped through her fingers and was carried away by the rivers that she had created.

 

She remembers, and it’s a bit of a haze, how it felt to lose her father.

 

(He’s not dead you know, not really. 

He’s still alive.

 

Still a monster.

 

At least, now he is. )

 

She remembers, something about a war, and a Golden Army, and Dream Pirates and Nightmares and Fearlings, and it’s all quite hazy, as if there are some pieces missing, some pieces that she cannot remember.

 

She remembers, that perhaps, the wind was far too cold and biting on that day, and that the rain was unforgiving and cold, the day that little Toothiana had lost everything.

 

Lost the Sisters of Flight, lost her parents.

 

(She had turned into a bit of a monster, wouldn’t you say?)

 

She thinks that perhaps, she should apologize.

 

(What good, would words do? 

They never bring anything back, never mend anything.

 

She plays a part in this entire world as do you- and you created it, this world.)

 

(You and your dreams, and your will to live.

 

It’s the only reason why you survived for this long, Seraphina.)

 

She thinks, perhaps, she was far too cold and distant.

 

And yet, the missing puzzle pieces, the missing memories – it won’t do her any good, to sit and wonder , and keep watch over the world as she knows it, and she thinks of her father, and his smile, and there is something like tears that well up in her eyes, and yet she forces herself to calm down, to lock those emotions away.

 

(It’s the past, it’s over, and dealt with.

It’s gone, etched away in the sands of time.

You can’t bring him back, you know that.)

 

She wonders, if perhaps, it was high tide she went out and sought out help.

 

Perhaps, from the very Queen that had grew up resenting her, who had now held her in the highest of regards.

 

Perhaps, it was time for the old magnolias to bloom again, in the mountains of Punjam Hy Loo.

 

Perhaps.


End file.
